Ill Fares The Land, To

If We Look Round The World, There Seem To Be Not Above Six Distinct Varieties In The Human Species, Each Of Which Is Strongly Marked, And Speaks The Kind Seldom To Have Mixed With Any Other. But There Is Nothing In The Shape, Nothing In The Faculties, That Shows Their Coming From Different Originals; And The Varieties Of Climate, Of Nourishment, And Custom, Are Sufficient To Produce Every Change.

The Youth Who Follows His Appetites Too Soon Seizes The Cup, Before It Has Received Its Best Ingredients, And By Anticipating His Pleasures, Robs The Remaining Parts Of Life Of Their Share, So That His Eagerness Only Produces Manhood Of Imbecility And An Age Of Pain.

And Still They Gazed, And Still The Wonder Grew, That One Small Head Could Carry All He Knew.

Amid Thy Desert-walks The Lapwing Flies, And Tires Their Echoes With Unvaried Cries.

As For Disappointing Them I Should Not So Much Mind; But I Can't Abide To Disappoint Myself.